


Nevertheless - I'm in love with you, damnit

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Creative sexual situations, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in love and denying it, Jealous John, John is a History Professor, M/M, Sherlock is a Musician - Composer - Conductor, Working on his PhD in Military History
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have been in a friends-with-benefits type of relationship for almost six months. It all seems to be working perfectly, albeit with a few bumps in the road, until someone from Sherlock's past shows up and turns everything John thought he knew about his relationship with his flatmate completely on it's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Casual Romance

The alarm on John's phone goes off in the morning as it always does, only it takes John until the fourth cycle of the alert for him to wake up and take notice. He fumbles around the screen with his thumb until it turns off and lets it slip out of his hand onto his chest He can't remember much from the night before. There's the taste of stale lamb and wine on his tongue, and there's some vague memory on the cusp of his mind where Sherlock was telling everybody at dinner about some twenty minute orgasm he experienced once.

He manages to set his feet on the floor, and to not be sick on the coffee table, when the door opens. It's a loud creak from the joint neither he or Sherlock bothers to oil, and John grabs at his head once again to stop the noise from drilling straight through it. He can see through the slots in his fingers as Sherlock is running his fingers through his hair, little droplets of water falling down to the floor as he does. John blinks a few times and lets his hand slide down his face.

"Is it raining?" he asks.

Sherlock startles, looking over to John as though he hadn't expected him to be awake, much less to be speaking. Another memory finds its way through the sloggy mess that is John's brain of Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, carrying John up the stairs, and laying him across the sofa.

"Obviously." Sherlock answers before he effortlessly disappears into the kitchen, and starts tinkering with the kettle. They've two electric ones, but Sherlock always likes to use the old whistle blower that sits on the back burner.

John finally stands from the sofa, his legs only a little wobbly, and draws open the curtains. The water beating down against the glass, John thinks, is less like obvious rain and more like an apocalyptic event. He very quickly starts to dread the idea of having to leave the flat. Instead he'd like to crawl into his bed, or better yet, into Sherlock's, and spend the day running his fingers through those silky, dark curls.

John's thoughts are shaken by the brush of Sherlock's body behind him, and the scent of freshly brewed lemon and bergamot. He takes the mug held up to his face, and lets the first hot sip start to break away the fog. Sherlock is still behind him; his arm still resting over John's shoulder as they both watch the street below them through the blurred lines of rain.

"Where were you this morning?" John asks. "It's barely even eight."

"A meeting with Mycroft and the committee members for the benefit."

"Oh, I see." John takes another sip of his tea. Sherlock always takes the time to add in extra lemon, and it never fails to be the best cuppa he's ever tasted. "That's the third one this week."

"Mmm, yes. And I still have rehearsal this afternoon. I'll be glad when this damn thing is over."

John turns so that he's facing Sherlock, and almost wrapped in his arms. They aren't supposed to be this close, aren't supposed to be this blissfully domestic.

"Well, I'll be thinking of you while I'm at the University."

Sherlock's eyebrows quirk up and pull his lips along into a smile. He has his mouth around the porcelain rim of his mug, blowing steam up into his face.

"Will you?" he asks.

John twitches a smile in return, and slips away from Sherlock's grasp, his fingers lingering at the seam of the other man's trousers. If they had more time, if John wasn't sick to his stomach, John would drag Sherlock down to the floor and take him apart piece by piece.

He settles though, for crossing through their mess of a kitchen, down the hallway and into the bathroom. He can feel Sherlock behind him, likely going to change out of his damp clothes, but as John turns off, so does he.

"What are you doing?" John asks.

"Taking a shower."

"That's what I was going to do."

"I know."

John turns to start the tap. It's a good excuse to hide the smile that he can't stop from spreading across his face. He pulls up on the lever that starts the spray, and is about to undress out of his clothes from the night before when he feels Sherlock already doing it for him.

His fingers are twisted in the fabric of John's t-shirt. John lifts his arms to allow for the soft fabric to be pulled over his head. Sherlock pops open the button of John's flies, and pulls down the zip.

John's divested of all his clothes as the steam billows up around him. He turns to see that Sherlock has lost all of his clothes too, and so they step together into the hot spray. He admires Sherlock's body; the lean muscle, the long lines of his frame that make him look like an exquisite piece of ancient art.

He washes Sherlock's hair; that luxurious mop he can't ever get enough of. There's a photo tucked away in a book on their shelf from some years ago, before John ever knew Sherlock, where his hair is short, not a single curl in sight. He looks at it from time to time, but the image before him is the one he prefers.

Sherlock's hands are running soap over John's thighs and around to his buttocks. John knows it won't go any further than where they are now, but he delights in Sherlock's unusual, soft touch.

When they've finished, John wraps a towel around himself and parts way with Sherlock to go up the stairs to his own room. He dresses for the rain; old jeans he won't mind getting splashed and a thin jumper to keep him just warm enough. He goes back downstairs to find Sherlock pacing around, looking for something.

"I'll stop at Tesco on my way home. Do you need anything?" John asks.

"Pencils. The green ones with the fine led and the black rubbers."

"Yea, they don't sell those at Tesco."

"No, but they sell them at the university shop. Three packs. Oh, and those coffee flavoured biscuits."

John sighs, "Pencils and disgusting biscuits. Got it."

He slings his bag over his shoulder - it's an old gray canvas messenger bag with some tattered holes at the edges, and a metal pin made to look like a poppy. He smiles again, or maybe his smile never really left, and he pushes up on his toes, a considerable amount shorter than his partner, and presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips.

It's short, and simple, and a lingers just a little bit. It leaves Sherlock stunned, though not overly.

As soon as John is back on the flats of his feet, and about to open the door to leave, his cheery look fades away, and he slams the palm of his hand against his forehead.

"Damn. I'm an idiot. Sorry."

Sherlock is looking back at him, a bit stunned, "Uh, it's fine. It's fine." he repeats. "Have a good day."

"You too."

 

~*~

 

John is still feeling like an absolute idiot when he gets to the university. He's so lost inside his head, shaming himself for making such a stupid mistake, that he doesn't notice Sarah has sidled up beside him on his walk to the library. It isn't until they've maneuvered two flights of stairs and the longest hallway ever that John catches a glimpse of her red hair sliding between her fingers.

"Have you been here long?"

She smiles at him and then laughs, "Not long at all. Having a bad day?"

"Something like that."

They reach the grand doors of the library, and John at least has enough sense to hold them open for her. He spends more than a necessary minute admiring the way her backside looks in the navy pencil skirt she decided to put on that morning.

"John?" she says, and he realizes just how long he's been standing there.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Just don't be so obvious next time."

In the moment he and Sarah are walking passed the shelf of new releases heading toward the lift, where they'll ride up three floors together before they part for their respective studies, John has a choice. He can either go home, and have a well parametered, and, in all honesty, earth shattering shag with Sherlock, or he can ask Sarah out, and spend the night studying her face against the soft glow of a candle, hold her hand on the pavement, and take in her lips for a lingering goodnight kiss he doesn't have to apologize for.

There's a ding from the lift, and Sarah shifts to step out into the world of Post World War Literature, but John presses for the doors to close just as they part to open.

"Dinner, tonight?" he asks.

"Absolutely. You know, I was about to put down money that I would have my PhD. before you got round to asking me out."

"You could have asked me."

"And waste all these great skirts? Not a chance." She smiles, and presses the button to open the door. She's just outside of them

"I'll meet you at seven at the London Club. You said once you're a member, yes?"

"Uh, yea- yes. Seven will be just fine."

John watches the doors close on her. He has two more floors to get to where they store all the old, boring books of Military History. He's been studying for two years now, and working on his dissertation of the modernization of Roman war tactics, and when he hasn't been eyeballs deep in that exciting field, he's been teaching an array of history classes to bright, eager uni students.

 _The London Club?_ John thinks to himself. Why on Earth would that be the place Sarah chose to go? He sighs, and tries to find the place he just lost in his book. He was going to have to ask Sherlock for a favour.

 

 ~*~

 

Sherlock is home when John gets back to the flat. He has a nub of a pencil between his teeth, and a hand firmly in his hair. He's lost in his mind somewhere, blank sheet of staff paper in front of him. John sets down the fresh pack of pencils and the biscuits on a clear space on the desk, and walks away without as much as a hum of acknowledgement of his presence.

It isn't unusual for John to feel like he doesn't exist in his own home, so he just shakes his head and brings himself upstairs to change. He spends less time than he thought he would picking out the right pair of tan trousers and the right blue button up to match. The thing that takes the most time is digging through the bottom of his wardrobe for a presentable pair of brown shoes.

He's back downstairs, putting the kettle on to make tea when he hears Sherlock shuffle in behind him. John turns and leans against the counter. He doesn't need to listen to very hard to hear the wheels turning inside Sherlock's head as he stares John down, figuring out his whole day, and the rest of his night with just a few glances.

"You have a date." he says.

"I do."

"You didn't shave. You always shave before a date."

"She likes the stubble."

Sherlock runs his thumb along John's jaw line, "Hmm. I like your face a little softer."

John tries not to fall into the spell that Sherlock can cast so quickly on him. The whistle blows on the kettle, and John takes the interruption as a chance to close his eyes and turn away from Sherlock's face.

"I have a favour to ask." he says, pouring the water into an empty mug - he forgot the damn tea bag.

"Oh?"

"I told her about the night you and I went to the London Club, and she must have assumed I'm a member, because that's where she's expecting to go."

"So, you want to use my membership?"

John drops a tea bag into his water. He isn't even sure what kind it is, but it really doesn't matter. He turns back to Sherlock, his hand safely around the mug.

"If I could. Please."

Sherlock steps forward, effectively trapping John between the counter and himself. He's staring at John; just staring, and breathing against his face. John's almost certain that he's going to kiss him, and spill scalding tea down the front of his shirt as a lesson for John's earlier mistake.

"Let me go get it." he says, and is gone as quickly as he was there.

John lets out a breath and takes a sip of his tea. Sherlock comes back, and is again in front of John. He slides his hand underneath the collar of John's shirt, and presses a small five pointed pin through the material, and clasps it closed underneath.

"Thank you." John says.

"You're welcome. Have a good time, John."

"I will."

 

~*~

 

John is finding that Sarah's face is quite pretty in the glow of candlelight, and that she's a supporter of unoaked white wine; he's ordered her three glasses already.

"This should probably be my last." she says, with a finger over her lips. "Anymore and I'm likely to become a sure thing. Not that you would take advantage of me in such a state, Captain Watson."

John laughs, and shakes his head. He's just finished recalling a time he got lost in Egypt when he was on a three day leave.

Sarah's cheeks are flushed, and her hair is starting to slip from all the pins and bands she's using to hold it up.

"I had no idea you were in the army." she says, "I guess I should have known; writing a dissertation on Military history and all."

"It could have just been a crazy hobby?"

"Well, isn't it?"

"I suppose, yes."

The club is as elegant as he remembers, if he can recall any memories from that gin soaked night, but the  coal stained wood with gold and white trimming, and the great antique, copper fountain in the center of the room feel familiar. It's meant for the cities elite, someone who can afford the obscene yearly dues, but as long as you're pinned with the star, or with someone who is, you're welcome inside, no questions asked.

With a small meal eaten, and their polite tolerance for alcohol reached, John pays the cheque, pulls out Sarah's chair, and walks with her a ways. Her hand fits nicely in his, and it feels good to be desired in this most simple way. To Sarah, he's a potential future, and to him, she's the same.

What he has with Sherlock...is wonderful, and mad and shakes him to his very core, but it isn't real. it isn't definite. What it is, is a contract full of rules and regulations, drawn up between the two of them, because one night they couldn't handle their attraction to one another anymore.

John finds a cab, and when they reach her flat, he asks the cabbie to wait, so he can walk her to her door.

"I had a lovely time, John." she says.

"I did too. Say, my flatmate has a benefit next week; orchestral music and a reception. Would you like to go with me?"

"I'd love to."

"Great." John leans in and presses his lips against hers. They're soft, and have a lingering taste of wine and strawberries. it doesn't last long, but John thinks that it didn't need to.

"See you around campus." she says when their lips part, and she turns to unlock her door.

John waits until he can see a light turn on through her window, and get back into the cab to go home.

He thinks about Sarah's soft lips, and wonders if he should have pushed to go inside for more. It's been a long time since he's been with someone, since he's really wanted to be. It was almost three years now since he and Mary split.

Oh,  Mary. She was beautiful, and lit a fire inside John like only a good woman could, but John knows now, that he had asked too much of her. Asked her to wait while he enlisted, asked her to wait while he sorted a few things out when he came back. John could have - he would have married her, if only she could have waited a little longer.

And now, he has Sherlock, but of course he doesn't _have_ Sherlock; he isn't a man that anyone owns, and John isn't sure that he would want to be the one who finally does. Although, the longer their casual romance drifts along, the more John is starting to feel the very things they both promised they never would.

The cab stops in front of the building on Baker Street, and John pays his fare. He unlocks the front door, and makes his way up the stairs and to the flat.

 "Did you have a nice time?" Sherlock asks the moment John walks into the door.  

He's lounged across the sofa in a loosely tied dressing gown, and not much else from what John can see. He has the bow of his violin resting across his chest, and the instrument at his side on the coffee table.

"I did." John answers with a smile.

There's a harsh sound that reverberates through the flat, and John looks next to the violin to see Sherlock's phone shaking against the table, the screen lighting up. it stops and then does it again. Sherlock just sits there, ignoring it.

"You're phone is vibrating." John says.

"I know."

Sherlock doesn't make any effort to answer, and so John shrugs his shoulders as he toes his shoes off. He is just about to step into the kitchen, toward the salvation of his bed when Sherlock's voice fills the air around them.

 "Come here."

John rolls his eyes, because he's tired, and a little more tipsy than he planned on being, and really just wants to sleep, but the command in his voice is laced with something unbelievably sexy, and John can't seem to find the will to tell Sherlock to sod off.

"What?" he asks, sounding much less annoyed than he wishes he did.

Sherlock sits up to make room for John to sit, and nearly climbs into his lap once he does. John isn't sure of what Sherlock's intention is; he's been like a strange, horny teenager all day. Sherlock's lips are hovering just over his own. They're a little bit chapped and John can feel the scratch of dry skin.

"You kissed her goodnight." he says.

"Wouldn't have been a proper date if I didn't."

"Was it nice?"

"Why are you asking?"

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, "just curious. Was it?"

"I- yes, it was."

Sherlock studies John's face, mostly his mouth, for several seconds before he speaks again.  It isn't the first time, and John knows it won't be the last, that Sherlock has traced the lines and expressions on his face like a map, but that knowledge never stops the heat from seeping in underneath his skin, and pushing sweat out along his brow line.

"Let's try something." Sherlock says, finally.

"Try what? Sherlock, could you be a little less intense? You're scaring me."

Sherlock closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he's anything but less intense. John audibly swallows, and starts wringing his fingers together in nervousness.

"I'm going to kiss you, John."

"O-okay."

"I'm going to kiss you until you cum."

John can't help but laugh, because the idea is so ridiculous that he doesn't think Sherlock can be serious, but Sherlock doesn't laugh with him, and so John bites down on his lip to quiet himself.

"Are you- Sherlock. Are you upset that I went out with Sarah tonight, because we agreed that we can see other people; kiss other people; sleep with other people. You and I aren't-"

"I'm not upset, John. I just thought you might like to end your night with something a little better than _nice_. Unless, you truly would rather go upstairs and wank to some tawdry image you concoct of her in your head."

Being touched by Sherlock does sound a great deal better than his own hands.

John sighs, "Alright, fine. Do your thing." he says.

John scoots himself further back against the sofa, and plants both of his feet on the floor. Sherlock swings his legs around John's waist, bending his knees against John's thighs so that he's fully straddled, but he's careful to keep their groins just close enough apart that it's already beginning to drive John mad with want.

Sherlock leans down, one hand resting on the arm of the sofa and the other on the backside, and kisses him. It's slow, and just their lips working against each other. it goes on like this for what John thinks has to be almost ten minutes, before Sherlock takes a much needed deep breath, and pushes his tongue inside, every one of his eight muscles overpowering John's as he presses hard over and over again. The languid, almost chaste kiss from moments before is replaced by something sloppy and hinging on desperate as Sherlock tongue-fucks John, reaching abandoned caverns of his mouth with each thrust.

John's gasping in breaths whenever he can, but Sherlock has a punishing grip of on his face that makes moving on his own accord difficult. He's achingly hard, and canting his hips searching for friction that Sherlock won't give to him. His fingers have been clawing against the leather of the sofa, but it isn't enough anymore, and he throws them into Sherlock's hair, gripping just as tightly against his scalp as Sherlock is against his cheekbones.

He can feel the sweat seeping through his shirt and dripping down his forehead - he's never been this warm before. Sherlock has brought him so close - one foot already stepping off the edge of the precipice, but he needs more; he has to have more.

"Sherlock" he pants, "Sherlock - _please_."

John doesn't beg. He's never needed to with anyone else before. He's often been the one to answer crying pleas, but he's never beseeched to someone else's mercy - except when he's with Sherlock. Under the nimble fingers and ferociously creative mind of Sherlock Holmes, John is always pleading for something.

Sherlock's tongue presses even deeper and harder than it already has been. He releases one hand of his grip, and undoes John's belt. With the anticipation of Sherlock about to touch him, John just might cum without it ever happening.

Sherlock harshly shoves his hand between the open fabric of John's trousers and his pants. Their mouths never parting, it's only _one, two, three_ thrusts of Sherlock's palm before John is shouting down his throat.

The kiss slows down as John's body finishes trembling, until finally, it's over.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock- that was - _fuck_." 

He's out of breath, and his limbs feel numb, but he manages to push Sherlock off from his lap so that he's back to cushion with the sofa, and John is the one straddling him. John brushes his fingers along Sherlock's side and over his protruding ribcage, his dressing gown having fallen completely open some time ago.

He teases over the waistband of Sherlock's pants, and follows the seam down further, where he finds a sticky mess to match his own.

"You came?" he asks not bothering to hide the shock in his voice.

Sherlock nods.

"From kissing me?"

"Yes."

John smiles and lays his weight down across Sherlock's chest, "You're bloody brilliant."

They're quiet, and have gone far over their allotted fifteen minutes of post-shag cuddling, but neither are making an effort to get up. The same obnoxious sound from earlier breaks the hazy silence as Sherlock's phone dances against the table again.

"Sherlock, your phone."

"I hear it."

"Aren't you going to answer it?"

"It's no one important." he says, and rests an arm across John's back.


	2. The Catalyst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some discord with a separate story I wrote and published recently, I feel like I should make a bit of a disclaimer here - I like to put my characters, in this case, John and Sherlock, through a lot before I get them together. I don't subscribe to the idea that their relationship, in any universe, would be a perfect bunch of roses, so they go through a lot of crap, and aren't necessarily nice to each other. Those of you who have read previous works of mine, know this - But I always get them together in the end - expect that one time I didn't, but that was a very rare exception! 
> 
> Point is, things are going to get a bit rocky for our loves, but no one panic - haha!  
> Also, this is the only piece I'm writing in present tense, so I made a few mistakes typing it up! I think I caught them all, but if I happened to miss one or two - I apologize. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Sitting somewhere near the back of the auditorium, John thinks this might be the single most beautiful moment he's ever experienced. He's heard Sherlock play before, of course he has, but it was all just practice; working out the notes that constantly float around in his mind so that he can get them down on paper before they disappear. More often than that, John only hears the tinker of the piano in the corner of the flat, or the rhythms of a symphony's worth of instruments off the app of Sherlock's ipad, and of course he's herd the finished product of all of it each new season that Sherlock conducts.

Right now, is the first time John has heard Sherlock manipulate the fine strings of his beloved violin. Each note darkens the room, and leaves Sherlock casted in a dim glow. He's taken off the tails he's had on all night, and looks so simple and handsome in his black trousers and ivory button up. He's pushed his curls back into their place, but they've since fallen down over his eyes as his head sways, like his hips, in time with the music.  The great space he's been sitting in suddenly feels so small; like he and Sherlock are the only people left.

But, then he feels something that takes him out of the pleasantry of his mind, and looks down to see a small hand covering his own, a pinky finger rubbing over his knuckles, where it's resting against his thigh. He glances up to Sarah, sitting beside him, and smiles at the entranced look etched into her face. For reasons he isn't quite sure of, he's glad that Sarah is as moved by Sherlock's music as he is.

It's all over too quickly, and John wishes that the entire program could have only been Sherlock and his violin; one piece was not nearly enough to satisfy him.  John and Sarah wait for the auditorium to clear out before they stand and make their way into the lobby. The crowd has somewhat thinned out, but there's still a substantial amount of people milling about with drinks in their hands, snagging canapés from the waiters mazing through with trays.

"Do you want to find Sherlock?" Sarah asks.

"Oh, he's already left. Sherlock never stays around for the reception."

"Oh." Sarah turns in John's arms, and kisses his cheek.

Her smile is as bright and bubbly as the champagne passing by them on silver platters, and John can't help but run his finger down the smooth lines of her amber hair.

"Should we go back to your place?" He asks.

"We should." she answers with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

~*~

"I love the way your hair looks in this lamplight. It makes me feel like the bed is on fire."

Sarah laughs, and twists her long locks around her finger. "You're a ridiculous romantic, aren't you?"

"More than a few people have said so, yes."

John opens his arm to let Sarah slide in next to him, and rest her head on his shoulder.

"This is nice." she says. "I haven't felt nice with someone in a long time."

"I haven't either."

It might be a lie, but John says it anyway, making her believe it with a soft kiss to the top of her head. They settle in, listening to the soft sounds each makes just before giving in to sleep.

~*~

In the morning, Sarah wanted to get a head start on her research for the day, and so she gave John a lift back to his flat, leaving him with a long, slow kiss across the gear shift.

When John got upstairs, he found Sherlock spread eagle in his favorite chair, white shirt unbuttoned and untucked from his trousers from the previous night, and his eyes narrowed in on something John couldn't see on the other side of the room.

"Have you been to sleep?" John asked

"No."

"Did you eat something?"

"Tea."

"Right. Well, I'm starved, so I'll make us some breakfast, yea?"

"I don't need to eat."

John ignores him, and goes into the kitchen. He opens the fridge to see what they might have, and pulls out the carton of eggs, and brings down the sack of bread from the cupboard along with a tin of beans.

"Do you want me to fry up some bacon?" he calls to Sherlock.

"I said I don't need to eat!" Sherlock yells back  from the sitting room.

He's in one of his moods, and John just doesn't want to deal with it. Sarah's bed was unbelievably soft, and he woke up every few minutes to turn onto his other side. He wanted to, but didn't have the heart, to leave in the middle of the night, and come back to his own bed.

John slams the tin down on the counter, and stands in the frameway between the kitchen and the living room.

"And I said that you do. So, you can sit there and sulk, but as soon as this is done, you're going to eat it, okay?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he stares at John for a good amount of time before  picking up a pencil and furiously scratching at a pad of paper sitting to his side.

John smiles at his defeat of the mighty, stroppy Sherlock Holmes, and goes back to the kitchen to make breakfast. When it's finished, he brings a plate to Sherlock, and they eat in silence, giving Sherlock a chance to lick his wounds.

"Did you come home and write?" John asks, breaking the quiet.

"I found some inspiration, but then it went away."

"So, you stayed up all night trying to find it? I see. Was any of it good?"

"Good is a relative term."

"Play something for me."

"Nothing is in the right state to be played, and it won't sound the same without the rest of the orchestra."

John tries to hide the amused smile spreading over his face. "Are you embarrassed?"

"Of course not. It just isn't ready for an audience."

"Then play me something else."

"Like what?"

"Anything. I just want to hear you play."

Sherlock considers the request a moment, and then gets up from the chair, leaving his empty plate behind in his place.

"Alright." he says.

The violin is already out, and Sherlock gingerly picks it up, and places it between his shoulder and chin. He closes his eyes, takes a moment to think about what he might play, and then slides the bow along the strings. John doesn't recognize the tune, but he doesn't need to.

Exhausted, disheveled, and lost in a place that only Sherlock has ever been to, he's the most wonderful thing John has ever seen in his life, and he's quite suddenly compelled to make Sherlock know that.

He stands, and walks over to Sherlock, pushing at his hips until he's leaning against the arm of the sofa. Sherlock's eyes open to see what's going on, but he keeps playing. Even as John pushes aside the fabric of his shirt, and bends to press kisses along his sternum and down to the soft bounce of his bellybutton.

"You are so beautiful, Sherlock. I know I'm not the first to tell you that, and I won't be the last, but I have to tell you; you have to know that I've never seen anything as beautiful as you."

Sherlock pulls the bow along the strings in a long and low stride as John takes down his trousers, and his pants, and slides the palms of his hands over the sharp edges of Sherlock's hips. He adores all the places where Sherlock's bones jut out in ugly, awkward places. The alien makeup of his body somehow makes his ethereal presence and beauty that much more human.

"I think about you, when I'm not supposed to be. God, if you knew all the times I thought about you, you'd be angry with me."

Sherlock keeps playing his melody. John can tell he's trying hard as he can not to look down at where he's now leaving wet, open mouthed kisses down the meat of his thighs, and stretching his tongue into the hollows of his pelvis.

He finally falters when John's mouth closes in around his hardening prick.  The violin crashes against his side, and he lets it drop to the floor with a mangled thud. John's fingers are gripped tight against Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock is bent in half over the sofa, his head resting on a bottom cushion.

John's tongue and lips, and just the right amount of teeth are relentless with a speed that's all too telling of his desire for the man before him, and Sherlock's wild breath, and his fingers scratching against his scalp only make him want him all the more.

It doesn't take long before Sherlock is cumming in John's mouth, and John is doing his best to swallow it all down. He slips Sherlock's cock from his mouth , and wipes away the remnants of the viscous liquid and drool that dribbled down his chin.

Sherlock slides his arse over the hump he's still bent over, taking John's hands as he goes, and they both stretch out across the sofa; John's body on top of Sherlock's.

"I wasn't expecting you today." Sherlock says. "Thought you would be spending the day with Sarah."

He's moving his fingers along John's sides, brushing them across his ribs as though they were the strings of his discarded violin, and it makes John twitch, pushing himself against Sherlock's body underneath.

"I don't know if it's exactly going to work out with Sarah." he answers. "She's lovely, but a bit boring."

"Mmm. You said that about the last one."

One of Sherlock's hands falls away from John, and reaches across to the table where he has a pack of cigarettes and his lighter sitting out. He maneuvers a stick from the pack, pops it in between his lips, and lights the end with a flick of his thumb against the metal cog.

"I'm a hard man to please." John says, waving the wafting smoke away from his face.

"Not from what I've experienced."

"I'm sorry, but whose the one who came, untouched, from shoving his tongue down my throat last week?"

"Perhaps, but you're always begging me to touch you."

John takes Sherlock's hand that was still stroking lazily against his side, and sets it against the bramble of light hair on his pubis. "I like the way you touch me."

"Clearly."

John rolls so that they are chest to chest - stomach to stomach, and kisses away the smirk on Sherlock's mouth; slow and deep. He had every intention to get up, put his clothes back on, and go to the shop, but Sherlock is so warm and pliant underneath him, that he thinks maybe he'll just stay there, kissing him, and letting his cigarette burn out between his fingers.

It didn't used to always be this way. The sex, when it started six months ago, was just as constant as it is now, but it was quick one offs in the kitchen that were forgotten about in a few hours, until the next time one of them had an itch they needed to be scratched. But somewhere, between then, and now, everything has slowed down.

John tries to get up, but Sherlock's grip around him holds strong, and he fights for only a few seconds before giving up.

"Sherlock-" he says laughing.

"Just a few more minutes. Until I finish my cigarette."

Sherlock brings his arm up, and takes a long drag before letting it hang off from the sofa again. John leans his head down on Sherlock's shoulder, feeling the expand, and slow deflate of his chest, and his closes his eyes; just for a second.

There's a harsh sound of Sherlock's mobile vibrating against the table, and it makes John's eyes flutter back open. He sees Sherlock reach out for it, and check the screen only to put it back down again, and let the vibrations fade out.

John doesn't ask this time who it is, or why Sherlock doesn't want to talk to them. It's probably only Mycroft anyway, and he's much too comfortable to ruin their afternoon with talk of Sherlock's least favorite subject.

 

~*~

 

"You baked me a cake?"'

John is in the kitchen, drying off plates from dinner.  After he  finally managed to peel himself off from Sherlock earlier in the day; seventy three minutes and two cigarettes later, he showered, brushed his teeth, and went down to the market. It was Sunday, which meant that Molly and Greg were going to be over at their flat, expecting dinner in just a few hours, and John didn't even know what he was going to make.

He didn't want it to be like last month when they ordered Indian, and ate off the paper plates on the top shelf of the cupboard.

John turns his attention to where Molly has snuck in, hovering a small, round cake John picked up at the bakery while he was out.

"I bought a cake. If I baked it, you would probably go into early labour." He says to her, abandoning the dishes and cutting her a slice. He knows better than to keep a pregnant woman waiting for her cake.

She laughs, and reaches out for the plate John sets the fresh slice on. "I'll keep that in mind for when I'm ready to kick this baby out." She says, with a bite.

"Oh, this is delicious."

"Good." John presses a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair, so much longer since she found out about the baby, smells like the tulip garden of his grandmothers. "I'm glad you like it." 

He leaves Molly in the kitchen, already digging her fork into another piece of what's left on the cardboard tray,  to see if Sherlock and Greg might want some. They're still in the living room, listening to an old record Greg brought over.

It was Sherlock who introduced John to the couple - he knew Greg from some time ago after Greg contacted him as a special speaker for his primary school students. . It's a relationship built almost entirely on their appreciation for music, and Sherlock pretends most of the time that he tolerates the man and his wife for John's sake, but John knows better.

He's just about to open his mouth, when there's a knock on the door.  He's looking at Sherlock, silently asking if he was expecting anyone, rather than the door when he pulls it open, so when he finally does brings his attention to the front of him, the man standing there almost takes all of the air right out of his lungs.

At least six feet tall, black t-shirt that is sticking to every muscle underneath a maroon leather jacket,, with dark, torn jeans hanging off the lines of his body in a way that makes John's mouth go dry. His hair is the color of rain washed mud, and rests just at his shoulders. He runs a hand through it and smiles, the perfectly tailored mess of stubble across his chin, and around his mouth, rising with the twitch of his lips.

"Is Sherlock Holmes here?' the man asks, and Christ if his voice doesn't sound exactly like the way fresh, thick and amber honey looks as it drips from the combs.

"Uh - um, yes. He is." John manages to stumble out."Sherlock!" John calls

Sherlock can, of course see from where he's sitting cross legged on the floor, and so he's already begin to lift himself up and glide over to the door. He stands just behind John, whose arm has instinctively grasped on to the edge of the door, blocking the man from having a way in.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks.

"I've been trying to call, but I must be trying at the wrong times."

"No. I was ignoring you."

The man's face turns slightly amused, in the same kind of way that Sherlock's subtly does.

"I know, but now that I'm here, may I come in?" he asks, looking more to John than to Sherlock.

Sherlock picks John's fingers off the door one at a time, and lets the man push himself inside. His presence is uncomfortable, at the very least, bringing about a kind of stifled silence.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?" he asks

John doesn't like the way his voice slips over his tongue, like he's  giving out orders rather than asking a question, and John absolutely doesn't like the way Sherlock seems to wither in his presence and follow the orders without doubt.

"Victor, this is Greg Lestrade, his wife Molly, and my flatmate, John Watson. Everyone, this is Victor Trevor. He's my guest conductor."

"I'm a bit more than that, aren't I?"

"He's an old acquaintance as well."

Victor slaps the palm of his hand playfully against Sherlock's cheek, and John has to bite down on his tongue until he tastes the copper tang of blood to stop from punching him square in the jaw. "Is that all I was?"

"Victor, if you don't mind, I am in the middle of something here. Mycroft has a meeting scheduled for us in the upcoming week."

"I know, but I thought it might be nice to catch up beforehand; in a more unprofessional manner."

John's going to punch him. One more slimy comment comes out of his mouth, and John has decided he's going to knock him flat on his back.

"I'll be in touch." Sherlock says.

He and Victor stare at each other for a long couple of seconds, before Victor smiles, and nods his head in acceptance of Sherlock's offer. He leaves as suddenly as he showed up, and it's only a matter of minutes before Greg and Molly leave too - they can see the warning signs of a Sherlock Sulk, and have no want to stick around for it.

John apologizes for the interruption, and sends them off with the rest of the cake - neither he or Sherlock will be wanting any.

He cleans up the kitchen, listening to the furious strings of violin from the other room. It didn't take Sherlock very long to get it out.

When the kitchen is clean , and he can't find any other reason to be hiding in there, John goes back to the living room, and sits down in his chair to watch Sherlock.

"So...Victor?" John says, hoping he sounds more interested than jealous. Not that he is jealous. At all.

"What about him?" Sherlock snaps.

"He's handsome."

"I suppose."

"And talented, I presume."

"Yes."

"And you used to shag him."

Sherlock stops running his bow along the strings, and pulls them both down to his side.  He regards John, wondering which answer he wants to give him.

"I did." he says. "A long time ago."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about. What would I want to talk about?"

"Sherlock, you're obviously affected by him. He must have been important to you."

"Victor and I were...together at the conservatory. When we finished the program, he was offered an apprenticeship in Vienna. I had already turned down my offer for an apprenticeship here, so I went with. After six months we moved onto Prague, and by a year I missed home. Victor told me he would be back after his program, but then he was offered work in Berlin, and then Rome, and Paris. It's been seven years, but he finally seems to have come back."

"Jesus, you loved him, didn't you?" The words are out of John's mouth before he even realizes that he isn't just thinking them.

"Of course, I didn't. I was young, and stupid. I may have _thought_ it was love at the time, but it wasn't."

"Whatever it was, he broke your heart."

"You're being dramatic."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

Sherlock puts his violin back in its case, "I'm going to bed." he says.

John gets up and starts to follow Sherlock through the kitchen and down the hall, turning each light off as he goes.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks, stopping in his doorway to keep John from following any further.

"I'm going to bed with you." John answers.

"We're not supposed to sleep together."

John cups the side of Sherlock's face, and finds his eyes in the dim light they're standing in."I'm not being your fuck mate right now, I'm being your friend, so please get into bed."

Sherlock hesitates against John's logic, but then he turns and silently gets into the bed, leaving the other side empty.

"Are you getting in or not?" he asks, when John doesn't move from where he left him.

John smiles, "Yea - Yea, I am."

 

~*~

 

There's a pleasant, euphoric sensation washing over John in the glow of the morning sun. He thinks he must be dreaming as his nerve endings are tingling with a low rising fire. A persistent creaking sound makes his eyes open, and through the hazy fog of sleep he sees Sherlock; eyes closed, throat exposed as his head is arched toward the ceiling. John feels the pads of his fingers, and just the edges of his nail pressing into thighs as Sherlock uses them for leverage while he's grinding John's morning erection in and against himself.

John doesn't say anything to let Sherlock know that he's awoken, but instead grips his cold fingers around the others waist. Sherlock stills for just a second, but then starts rolling his hips again.

John moans from his slightly parted lips, "yea. Like that."

It's all so soft and unhurried that John is certain now he must be dreaming.

Sherlock's breath is coming out shallow and hard, and John knows that he's close. He positions himself so that he is hitting Sherlock's prostate each time he pushes himself down, and it brings the most glorious cries out of him.

John is close too, finally having the energy to buck up and meet Sherlock's rhythm. Sherlock bends, using the friction of their bodies  to give him that last little bit. There's a tickle at his ear as Sherlock pushes his mouth against it, and then there's a sound - the most faint kind if whisper, that John isn't even sure it's there.

"You're amazing, John. I-"

Sherlock's words are bitten off by the orgasm that unwinds through the both of them, and John doesn't dare speculate what he might have been trying to say.

"Good morning." John says, taking off his t-shirt and using it to clean off the mess he made of the two.

He tosses the shirt to the floor, and pulls on Sherlock's shoulders to reach his mouth for a kiss; He tastes like tea and tobacco.

"You've already smoked?"

"I've been up for hours."

"So, just how long were you using me as your own personal sex toy?"

Sherlock grins, but doesn't offer up an answer, and John thinks he doesn't really need one, so he settles for kissing him again - Sherlock's lips are so unbelievable, that John could stay in bed and kiss the entire day away with him, but before he can even mention the idea, Sherlock has pulled his mouth away, and left John, cold, in the bed.

"Someplace to be?" he asks.

"I'm meeting Victor for coffee."

"Victor?"

"We have work to do."

"You were just ignoring his calls all week, and now you're going to have coffee with him?"

John sighs. "Do you think you'll be home tonight?"

He knows it's a desperate question, and isn't even sure why he's asked. Sherlock doesn't have to come home, and he certainly doesn't have to answer to John about whether he will or not - or who he'll be with if he isn't.

"I don't know. Don't you have a class to teach?"

The clock on the other table on the other side of the bed seems to say _yes_ "Yes. I do."

"Then worry about that, and not me."

John watches Sherlock leave through the door that connects to the en suite, and bangs his head against the headboard.

"Stupid." he mumbles to himself, "So fucking stupid."


	3. Degrees of Seperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the update took so long. I've been having laptop issues, and was trying to figure out if I still wanted to go ahead with the story as planned (as in keep this chapter in) or change it up a little. I decided to stick to my original plan - though, it went through a few different versions before landing on this one.
> 
> As you will see there is a question mark now as to how long the story is going to be- I think I've got at least two, maybe three more chapters here.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!   
> (And don't hate Sherlock too much. Or John for that matter.)

"Why is _he_ always here?"  

John is standing in the entryway of the kitchen, looking out to where Sherlock is in the living room, going through papers and trying to find something specific he and Victor worked on the last time he was there. it's been weeks since the disgustingly perfect man came into town, with his hair knotted in a bun at the back of his head, and a pencil in between his teeth; always in John and Sherlock's living room, always leaning in too close to Sherlock, drinking too much of their tea, and breathing too much of the air that is supposed to belong only to the two of them.

"Are we bothering you?" Sherlock asks, "we can always go to his hotel, it's just that-"

"No." John says, a bit more forcefully than he ought to, and he can feel his cheeks start to run red as Sherlock looks up from his papers at him, "It's just fine that you're here."

Sherlock's eyes lift in curiosity along with the corners of his mouth, "John, are you jealous?"

"Of course I'm not, but he's a creep Sherlock; you have to know that."

"You don't know him." Sherlock says.

"And thank God for that."

Sherlock laughs. He abandons the papers, and crosses the room to where John is standing. He runs his thumb down the side of John's face, and across his bottom lip before letting it go with a wet snap.

"You are jealous." he says, "It's interesting....I think I like it."

John pushes Sherlock away, and brushes passed him. "I'm not jealous. I just think you could do better than Victor Trevor."

He plops down in his chair, and idly plays with a loose string on the hem of his t-shirt. He doesn't teach on Wednesdays, and so it's still the shirt he slept in.

"He's the first, you know." Sherlock says, behind him.

 _"Your_ first?"

"Well, that, but I meant he's the first I've been with since you and I made our arrangement. You, on the other hand, have had three sexual partners, and at least thirty five dates."

"So, that makes Victor special?"

"Unfortunately, yes, it does. I know what kind of man he is, but there's a history there, that I'm a slave to, no matter how greatly I try not to be."

There's a moment of sympathy where John understands exactly what Sherlock is talking about, because he's a slave to that man standing right in front of him; has been for months, and will continue to be until it rips the life right out from inside of him.

He hesitates, looking at Sherlock whose moved in front of him now, and then back down to his fingers still at his shirt. He reaches out his other hand, and grabs at Sherlock's wrist to keep him in place before his focus breaks and finds something else more interesting.

"Am I special?" John asks.

"Start asking questions like that, and we'll have to stop shagging." Sherlock says to him.

John smiles, and leans up to give him a sloppy, off centre kiss, "I'll just have to keep my mouth shut then."

"Well, not completely shut."

Sherlock pulls John up from the chair so that they're nearly chest to chest. His palm is slowly grinding against the soft fabric of the crotch of John's sleep trousers, filling him with the want and desire that he's always on the edge of.

"Isn't Victor coming by?" John asks.

"He can wait."

John's heart flutters, and he captures Sherlock's mouth, their legs entwine around each other, and connected, they maneuver through the living room, and the kitchen into Sherlock's room, where their mouths finally break apart so John can hurriedly remove his clothes, and then Sherlock's clothes, and push him down on the unmade sheets and covers.

John loves this. He loves the weight of Sherlock's cock in his mouth, the taste of pre-cum on his tongue. He loves the soft noises that slip through the seam of Sherlock's lips, and loves the way Sherlock's fingers thread through his hair.

At first, he grips tight; fingernails digging into John's scalp to direct him - faster, slower; deeper. Then eventually, the tightly wound string that keeps Sherlock perfectly composed starts to fray, and his fingers just tickle at the nape of John's neck, until they finally fall to the bed, the sofa cushion, the table edge, or wherever it is they are.

This time, Sherlock grips tight to the sheets behind him. His hips are canted upward, held steady by John's hands, and his head is arched backward.

He's completely exposed, completely beautiful, and free.

John's fingers brush up and down Sherlock's thighs, they trace a line over his ribs, and finally dig into the hollow of his hips as he increases the speed of his sucking, bobbing, licking.

" _Fuck_." Sherlock says on the trail of a breath.

He repeats the curse over and over again, and John can feel just how close he is.

He swallows down all he can when Sherlock finally lets go - a bit of it dribbles down his chin, and onto the bedspread below.

John falls down next to where Sherlock is finally laying flat on his back, and kisses at his shoulder as he catches his breath. With no words, Sherlock's fingers walk across the small space between them, and wrap around John's prick. John sighs at the relief of Sherlock's touch, and continues to pepper haphazard kisses around any piece of flesh he can get his lips on.

It doesn't take much before John is panting, holding onto that all encompassing feeling right at the edge of orgasm, before he shouts an incoherent garble of words, and twists his head in between Sherlock's warms shoulder and the twisted sheets below.

Sherlock's fingers slowly let go; one by one as John floats back to reality. He leans over to kiss Sherlock, whose eyes are closed, and his body still and quiet except for his beating heart.

John is the first to leave the bedroom, his pajama trousers back on, and one of Sherlock's dressing gowns hanging open. He sees that Victor has let himself into the flat, and is sitting in Sherlock's chair, tapping the bow of his violin casually against his shoulder.

"Oh. Hello, Victor." John says.

Victor tips his head and the bow in John's direction, "Your landlady let me in. I hope that's alright; no one was answering the buzzer."

"It's fine, yes. Sherlock should be out soon. Would you like some tea or a beer?"

"No thank you."

John smiles as politely as he can continue to be. He feels smug knowing that Victor was in the living room while he and Sherlock were getting each other off just a few feet away. He knows that Victor heard Sherlock's exclamations, and the way he called out John's name. It's petty, he knows, but he really just doesn't care.

He's gone back into the kitchen, and has a beet from the fridge almost to his lips when Sherlock shuffles down the hallway, freshly changed and perfectly poised. He stops to kiss John on the cheek, which serves to inflate John's already burgeoning ego.

But then, as the kiss is still lingering on John's skin, Sherlock continues on into the living room, and bends down to Victor in his chair, and gives him a long and square kiss on the lips.  John thinks he might be sick. It isn't the first time he's seen it; he's walked in on the two men's lips locked together too many times than he wants to remember, but this time it feels different; it makes John feel dirty.

He takes a drink of his beet, and flees up the stairs into his bedroom. The room is a mess; despite Victor's ever growing presence, John has been spending more time in Sherlock's bed than his own; using the space just to change before work, or to sneak up to in the middle of the night when he gets lost in his mind, thinking Sherlock will have a strop to wake up and find him still in the bed downstairs.

He has clothes on the floor, his bed, neatly tucked in the corner of the pale blue walls is unmade, but he sits on it anyway, and pulls his laptop from underneath. He doesn't understand why he's being such an idiot about what's going on between Sherlock and Victor. Is it just that suave, slimy bastard or would John feel this way about anyone Sherlock was shagging?

He's never had the chance to know.

John isn't fooling himself though. He knows that somewhere in the last half a year, his sexual attraction and his friendship with Sherlock have started to blur together as one on the same. No matter how he lies to himself that it isn't true.

John finishes his beet, and busies himself on his computer as he listens to a cacophony of instruments and arguments downstairs.

Of course Sherlock wants to be with Victor. He's tall, and gorgeous, and his talent is only comparable to Sherlock himself. He reads Voltaire, knows five languages, and they have a history. Victor was the first. The first to break through Sherlock's aluminum shell, and find the beautiful soul underneath. He was the first to kiss his hesitant lips, to feel the hidden parts of skin, and the first name he cried out in the dark. John has probably always just been a placeholder until Victor came back.

He slams his laptop closed, not even sure what he's been looking at, and slides down his headboard to land against his pillows. He hears the door close downstairs, and is suddenly surrounded by the loudest silence he's ever heard.

Damn that Victor Trevor anyway.

 

***

 

A date with Sarah is just what John thinks he needs at the end of the week. He doesn't know where things are going with her, or if he even wants them to go anywhere at all. None of the other girls lasted very long, but there's something about Sarah that he likes, even if she is a little bit boring, and more prude than she puts out there, and even if he didn't, the distraction of her tight skirts, and her pink lips, and the way her hair shines underneath any light keeps him interested enough for now.

"John?"

"John?"

There's a delicate slap against John's arm, and he shakes his head free of wherever it was he was lost to, and finds himself in a dimly lit restaurant across a small table from Sarah, who is wrapped in a tiny, red dress.

"I'm sorry." he says.

"You haven't been here all night."

"I know. My first dissertation review is happening. It has me a little distracted."

"John, you can tell me the truth." she says with a stern, crooked smile.

"I am. I'm meeting with my advisor on Tuesday."

"I don't doubt you're telling me the truth about your dissertation, but that isn't what has you distracted."

John laughs, "Of course it is."

"John, love, you're thinking about someone else. And it isn't the first time."

He sighs, and runs his finger along the glass rim of his whisky ginger. "I'm that obvious?"

"It's a bit pathetic, actually."

"Christ. I'm awful, aren't I? At this lovely restaurant, with you looking as sexy as ever, and my mind is on someone else."

Sarah's face softens, and she reaches across the table, between the glasses and the flickering candles to takes John's hand in hers.

"You're not awful. Though, I did spend a pretty pound on this dress." she says with a laugh.

"And I promise for the rest of the night I'll only focus on getting you out of it."

"I take it back; you are awful."

John laughs, and squeezes her hand before slipping away from it. He takes a sip of his drink, and a bite of his steak. He makes an effort to keep his mind off from Sherlock. Sherlock, who left just before John did, with Victor. John didn't ask where they were going, though he was dying to know.

The show was opening in three days, and they both were at rehearsal all day, and then Sherlock came home to change. While he was undressed down to his pants he went into the kitchen to make tea, and gave John a long, slow kiss as he waited for the kettle to boil. Though, they had long been ignoring most of the rules they had laid out in their arrangement, kissing without the intention of shagging was still something Sherlock had insisted on adhering to; no affection for the sake of affection, but they didn't shag. The kettle whistled, and Sherlock took his lips away from John's, and went on with making himself a cuppa.

"Is it alright if we go back to your flat?" Sarah asked. "I'm having mine repainted tomorrow, and it's just a mess."

"Uh, yea; that's fine."

"Your flatmate won't mind?"

"I don't think he's home."

Sarah grinned, "Oh, good."

They finish a chocolate cake smothered in even more chocolate and served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream as if that would be enough to curb the chocolate assault already happening in their mouths, and take a cab to Baker Street.

John honestly doesn't think that Sherlock will be there, but he sees a sliver of light underneath the door at the top of the stairs. He almost asks Sarah if it would be alright if he paid for her to take a cab home, and take a rain check for the rest of the night, but he doesn't. He won't let Sherlock ruin what has so far been a good night.

He opens the door, smile on his face, Sarah's hand in his, and sees Sherlock on the sofa with Victor at his side.

"Oh." he says, feigning surprise, but he knows that Sherlock can see right through it; through all of it.  "I didn't think the two of you would be here."

"I wanted to go over something before rehearsal tomorrow, so I coerced Victor into coming back here." Sherlock says.

"He's a hard man to say no to, isn't he, John?" Victor asks, running his hand uncomfortably high on Sherlock's thigh.

"Yes. He is."

John feels Sarah's hand start to slip from him, and he suddenly remembers that she's even in the room.

"Sherlock, you remember Sarah, right? Met her once or twice at the University?"

"Of course."

"Hello." Sarah says to Sherlock with a small wave of her free hand.

"And Sarah, this is Victor Trevor."

"I didn't realize it was date night at Baker Street." Victor says. "We should have doubled up."

"Oh. Is that where you two were; on a date?" John asks.

"It wasn't a-" Sherlock starts to say, but he's interrupted by Victor.

"It wasn't anything elaborate. We just went somewhere Sherlock and I used to frequent. Strangely enough, the owner was surprised to see Sherlock there without you."

John has already been feeling a twist of nerves and anxiety inside of his stomach, and he's been repressing the urge to punch Victor in the face just for existing in the same space as the rest of them, but when he realizes where it is that the two of them have just come from, he thinks he might pass out.

"Angelo's?" he asks directly to Sherlock, "You and Victor went to Angelo's?"

They didn't date. Next to not kissing just for the hell of it, not dating was the most important bit of their arrangement, but Angelo's was always an exception. Even before they were shagging, it was a regular stop for food when they didn't know what else to do or where tired of the Curry place down the street. Angelo's was the place they went to when neither wanted to admit that actually wanted to go on a date; Angelo would bring them a candle, would pay for a bottle of wine, and the two of them would sit across from one another, watching the other.

"John, it was just dinner." Sherlock says quietly. And it's the first time John has ever heard him sound remorseful; about anything.

"Yes. Of course it was. And Victor is just a friend from your past, and I- well, I don't know what I am anymore, Sherlock, but obviously I'm not him- not good enough."

He turns away from Sherlock and Victor, and tugs on Sarah's hand to bring her back out of the flat. He knows there's no way to salvage his night with her; to salvage any kind of future he might or might not have wanted from her.

They wait silent at the kerb, as if a cab is on the way, but neither have made a phone call.

"I didn't know you were gay." Sarah says, breaking the silence.

"I'm not."

"Oh. But it is Sherlock you've been thinking about? You're sleeping with him?"

"Yes. I should have told you I've been seeing someone else, but it isn't like that. I would have left him for you before I left you for him."

Sarah pushes a piece of hair behind her ear, "Because you like me more or because he would never let you stay?"

"Sarah-" John tries to reach out for her, but she steps away.

"I think I'll catch my cab at the end of the street." she says, and her heels click against the pavement. She stops when she's about halfway through, and turns around to John, "For the record, you being bisexual or whatever it is, isn't a big deal. You being in love with someone else and pretending not to be, is."

John watches her walk down to the end of the block, and then turn the corner. Just when he thought he couldn't feel any more stupid about anything, he suddenly does. He looks up to the light on in the living room window, and his stomach turns. He has no idea how he's going to go back inside now, and pretend that everything is okay when it's far from it.

 

***

John is sitting at the breakfast table, cup of cold tea between his hands. It's the next morning, and he's been up for hours; he's fairly certain that he never even went to sleep. It wasn't that Sherlock and Victor were loud once they finished sitting too close on the sofa and went into Sherlock's bedroom, in fact, John couldn't hear them at all, but he knew that they were in there - knew that Sherlock's hands were feeling someone else they way he used to feel John, that it was someone else who was making Sherlock lose control.

There's a noise behind him and Sherlock shuffles in, half dressed. He pours out the leftover water in the kettle, and refills it to set it to boil.

"Good morning." John says to him. "Is Victor still here?"

"No. He left before the sun came up."

"Classy."

Sherlock laughs. He's leaning against the edge of the counter, but he pushes himself away, and bends down so that his mouth his inches away from the thin skin on John's neck.

"I never knew jealousy was so sexy until I saw it on you." he says, and starts to suck and nip.

John's body immediately wants to give in. He wants to let himself be driven mad by Sherlock's ministrations until he's a puddle on the kitchen floor, begging to be fucked, but there's a nag; the same nag he's been repressing for months, pounding against the back of his head, telling him to stop.

"Sherlock." he says, and his voice is breathy, and needy; not at all what he indented it to be.

"Sherlock?" he tries again, a fraction more assertive.

Sherlock hums against John's throat where's been leaving a delicate purple bruise.

"Sherlock, can you stop? Please?"

He's ignored, and Sherlock sucks harder in defiance to the question. John moans, because he can't help but to - Sherlock's mouth is the best kind of sin .  His hands grapple at whatever part of the other man he can touch, and then he pushes against him, until Sherlock's mouth finally pops off.

"Please, Sherlock."

"What?" he asks, annoyed.

"I'm just not in the mood right now."

"You're lying."

John shakes his head, "Yea, alright, I am, but just pretend like you don't know and get on with your day."

"I don't need you to tell me. I already know."

"What do you know?"  John asks.

"Sarah."

"Sarah? You think this is about Sarah?"

"You brought her home last night. You've been with her longer than others. You like her."

"You are brilliant Sherlock, but you're deft as hell. This has nothing to do with Sarah - Sarah broke up with me."

"Oh."

John shakes his head again and gets up from the table. He's shaking from the adrenaline coursing through him, from the tug of war inside of him to go off on Sherlock or to reach out and put his hands on him again.

"I have a class." He says.

"John."

Sherlock reaches out to him, but John ducks away. He picks up his cold cup of tea, and brings it down the hall to the bathroom, locking the door on both sides behind him.

He starts the shower, hotter than normal, and undresses to step underneath the spray. He knows he needs to stop it, that he's been in too deep for too long, and if he goes any deeper, he'll never get back out.

He barely has the shampoo rinsed from his hair when he hears the door from the hallway open and close, and he hears Sherlock's voice eco against the tile.

"You forget I know how to pick locks."  

"I didn't forget. I just hoped you wouldn't be a twat."

"You should know better."

John pulls back the curtain, "I don't know much of anything at the moment."

"You said that last night, and I have no idea what you mean by it."

"Sherlock, I - I don't think I can do this anymore."

"By this I'm assuming you mean us?"

John laughs, "There is no _us_. There's you, and me, and the sex that we have, but you've done your best to make sure there's no possibility it goes beyond that, and I - I'm tired of it."

Sherlock looks at him for a minute. His eyes start at John's toes and work up to the soapy mess at the top of his head.

"Fine. If that's what you want." he says. "Consider it terminated."

"Fine. Good. Then, I'd just like to finish my shower."

"Yes. I have rehearsal in an hour."

"I'll be done quickly."

"Good."

Sherlock leaves the bathroom, and John stands there, water spraying against his side and the curtain still open. It takes him a few minutes before he's realized what has just happened, what he's just asked to happen, and how easily Sherlock agreed to it.

He manages to finish his shower, and peeks his head into Sherlock's room to let him know that it's open. Sherlock is standing at the end of his bed, still barely dressed, and laying clothes out for his day. John wishes he had never said anything now, that he could drop the towel from his waist, and pull Sherlock's pants over his arse, and things could be like they were just moments before John let his self respect get the better of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Edge of Everything

Sherlock hasn't come home since he left with Victor for the last dress rehearsal before the opening of their show.

John came home from work to emptiness, and he's been living with emptiness for weeks now. He's tried to fill the void with books and crap tele, with unnecessary sleep, and too many cups of tea, but nothing can patch up the hole left inside of him.

He just wants to forget the stupid things he said, the things he let himself feel, and most of all, he thinks he just wants to forget Sherlock.

But how?                                                                                    

How can he forget the delicious taste of cold tea and stale tobacco on his tongue, the delicate trace of Sherlock's fingers over his trembling skin, and every little thing Sherlock does that drives John mad.

He misses his body, but more than that he misses his smile, misses how he was the only one in the world to see it for what it really was. He misses the screech of violin strings, the scratch of a pencil against paper. He misses the silence they could sit in for hours, not needing to do anything but breathe.

John finds himself at pubs, trying to drink it away, and then at nightclubs trying to dance it away with any warm body he can find, but it isn't enough. it's never going to be enough.

"John? My beer?"

John is in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge. He turns to Greg sitting at the kitchen table, much cleaner since Sherlock hasn't been there to spread his entire life across of it, but much sadder too.

He shakes his head clear of wherever it was his mind was starting to wonder. No doubt it was into the back bedroom, underneath the covers, and across smooth, milky skin.

"Sorry." he says, and tosses a can across the table.

Greg smiles and pops the top, "So," he says, "there was something I wanted to ask you."

"I knew there was a thing."

Greg ignores the tone in John's voice, and continues on, "Molly is due is less than a month, and I need to go out and get pissed off my arse before I'm thrown into fatherhood."

"First, I don't think you're going to be thrown into it; you've been preparing for the last eight months. And, second, I'm not in the mood to go out."

"Not in the mood? You've been out every night since Sarah broke things off with you. You taught an entire class in sunglasses you were so hung over. Please, John. I need this."

Everyone thinks he's been upset because of Sarah, and let's what he's let them believe. It's a lot easier than explain a lifelong secret he's been holding on to, and a hell of a lot easier than explaining how he fell in love with Sherlock.

He looks across the kitchen and follows the anxious lines from Greg's forehead down to the hopeful and desperate smile across his lips.

"You're pathetic," he says.

"Does that mean you take pity on me, and you'll go?"

"Yea. I suppose it does."

Greg smiles and takes the first sip of his beer. John leaves him there and goes upstairs to change out of his athletic trousers, and dingy sweatshirt. He comes back down fifteen minutes later in dark jeans and a maroon t-shirt that he's always thought was too tight.

They take Greg's car to a pub a few blocks away. They both order pints and John does his job as friend to listen to Greg's ever increasing lines of self-pity, fear and the occasional banter of excitement, but after nearly an hour of it, John is starting to get bored, and while his ears are still listening to his eyes are scanning. Not for anyone, in particular, just looking to see if there's anything a bit more interesting to take his mind away from where it's been.

Across the bar, alone with a pint in his hand, he sees someone he's seen before. Someone who's tried to get his attention before, but who John has always ignored in favor of going home to someone better. Drew notices John's attention and catches him with a smile. For the first time, John doesn't look away, doesn't silently apologize and leave, instead he finishes the gulps of his pint and clasps a hand down on Greg's shoulder.

"I'm gonna head to the loo." he says.

"Yea, sure."

John slips off the stool and walks around the bar. He passes Drew with a slight brush of his hand against his arm and then heads into the men's toilet.

He's nervous, his heart beating just a little too fast. it isn't as though he's had a meaningless hook-up; he's had plenty in the last few weeks, but it is the first time he hasn't been bothered to wait until they can be somewhere proper.

It's only a minute before Drew is inside, standing in front of him. He's about the same height as John, but his build is far more muscular. His hair is golden and cropped close to his head, and his eyes are a dark, dark brown.

"You're interested tonight,"  Drew says.

"I've always been interested."

"No pretty bird to hold you back this time?"

"Something like that."

John pushes down on Drew's shoulders, and Drew crouches on his knees. John's already half hard when he's taken out from the green cotton of his y-fronts, and he moans with an almost relief as Drew pumps him through his fist before slipping his cock into his mouth.

It feels good - too good for too terrible of reasons. John's fingers grapple at the slippery metal he's pressed against, with his others pushing into Drew's scalp to direct him just how John likes it. He's never been so particular about his head, but he's so desperate to know that it isn't Sherlock sucking and licking and dribbling down on his knees that he's all but narrating a play by play.

And Drew is brilliant. His lips are chapped, and the dead skin scratches at John's sensitive flesh. His fingers tease just perfectly around John's hole and then slip forward to smooth over his balls.

It isn't long before John is ready to cum. He tries to hold on, but it's no use. He tightens his fingers around Drew's hair and his toes curl inside his shoes just a moment before he's swallowed whole. He can feel Drew's throat contract and constrict around it, and there's nothing to stop him.  Drew takes it all, gagging near the end and pulling back only slightly early enough for it to be disappointing.

He stands and wipes his mouth. John's eyes are closed and he's catching his breath while trapped between the stall wall and a muscular arm.

"Is there someplace we could go?" Drew asks, "Your flat maybe?"

"Ye-yes. I just have to get my mate home alright."

"Of course. I can meet you there."

"221b Baker Street." He tells him and steals a sort of kiss.

John is excited in a way he hasn't been for some time. It's been awhile since he's fucked a man other than Sherlock, and his nerves are prickling with the anticipation.

He and Drew part at the door for the toilets and John finds Greg still at the bar, his empty glass in front of him.

"You know what, I don't want Molly to worry, or worse, get mad at me for keeping you out all night. Let's get you home."

"Molly is at her mother's."

"Oh. Well, I should get home, then. And really, you've had enough for the night."

"Right. You're probably right."

John catches Drew's eyes across the bar as he settles his tab and strolls out the double glass doors. There's a heat down John's spine and through the meat of his thighs. He digs his hand into Greg's shoulder.

"Yea, I am. Let's go."

John pulls Greg up from the stool and helps hold him up on the walk to the car. He stuffs him into the passenger side, buckles his belt, and brings him home. Greg thanks him the entire way for bringing him out and now for bringing him home. John makes sure he's alright, leaves him with a glass of water and some pharmacetol.

He finds a cab outside the flat and taps his foot against the gray floor the entire way home. When he's there and steps out of the cab Drew is waiting on the step.

"Did your friend get home alright?" He asks.

"Yea. He's fine."

John unlocks the door and leads him up the stairs where he unlocks the other door.

"So, do you live here alone?"

"No, but my flatmate is gone...for the night."

Barely another second flashes between them before they're kissing in the center of the sitting room. John's excited still and his eagerness pushes Drew's shirt over his head, closes his mouth over a nipple. He takes the other man's hand and leads him through the kitchen. When they pass the stairway to his bedroom, John thinks twice about stepping off, and continues on into Sherlock's room.

They climb onto the bed, John kissing at whatever skin he can find. The faint smell of Sherlock still on the sheets, the heavyweight of his things pressing in around them, it all drives him.

He's angry and he's hurt, but this man he's ignored so many times before in favor of going home to Sherlock, is going to make some of it better.

Drew tastes like sweat and he smells like beer and peanuts. Not the most appealing, but different. It isn't tobacco or lemon or the fresh spearmint of too expensive shampoo. It isn't wood and rosin and pencil led - it isn't paper and the slight tinge of blood.

It isn't Sherlock.

John has been kissing around the hollows of Drew's pelvis long enough to have him worked up into a frenzy, but then suddenly he stops.

"You know what, I can't do this. I'm sorry."

John pulls away from Drew, already breathing heavy from the anticipation of John's lips on his prick.

"I should have known it," Drew scoffs. "You straight boys are so willing to put your dick in my mouth, but when it comes to returning the favor-"

John's tongue licks at the underside of Drew's cock, catching his balls and following all the way over the tip.

"I'm not straight," he says. "Now, fuck off."

John turns his back to Drew, and curls into a ball. He closes his eyes and listens to Drew pull his clothes back on and his feet shuffling out of the bedroom, and finally the sound of the door closing out in the sitting room. He sighs and spreads out on his back. He's pathetic. He looks around to the shadows of Sherlock lurking within the room; his instruments, his photos, a shirt across the back of his chair he decided not to bring with him; one of his watches on the bedside table. Everywhere, John starts to think, Sherlock exists in the flat even when he isn't there. The generic jam he likes in the refrigerator, his stockpile of the expensive mint shampoo he washes his hair with inside the linen closet. Even upstairs in John's room there's a dressing gown and a photo of the two of them at the race track the summer before. If it's agonizing living around just his stuff, how is John ever going to survive when Sherlock comes back?

If Sherlock comes back.

John falls asleep quickly and doesn't hear the slam of the door to the kitchen or the creak of the bedroom door opening. He doesn't hear footsteps against the wood of the floor or the sound of shoes tumbling down to it.

He doesn't stir until he feels a kiss over his eyelids. He thinks that it's Drew, back to see if John has changed his mind, because some people just don't know when to give up.

"I said to fuck off."

"You must have me confused with someone else." Sherlock's voice rumbles through the darkness, and right to the pit of John's stomach.

"What are you doing here?" John asks.

"I think that's the question I should be asking you; my bed and all."

"It's hot in my room."

"And it's better to stain my sheets with your cum rather than your own."

"I was going to wash them."

"Wouldn't have been the first time I've washed you from my sheets."

John sighs, and crosses him arms over his chest, "Really, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?"

"Victor snores."

"Oh, I see. Well, I'll just go upstairs, then."

"No. Stay. Just stay," he runs a finger downs John's cheek, and over the curve of his chin, "Please."

"Sherlock-"

John's protest dies on his lips as Sherlock bends to kiss him. His fingers run through John's hair and John sits slightly to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck, trying to hold onto the sinewy body as it scoots lower and lower down John's. This is exactly what John's been missing, what he's been craving every time he's touched himself- touched someone else.

Sherlock's tongue has left a line of saliva down to the edge of John's bellybutton, where a trail of soft, golden hair starts. John can't believe he's fallen so quickly back into Sherlock's wiles. He's always thought he was stronger than that. He feels Sherlock's lips around him and rationalizes that no one could be that strong.

He gives in, lays his head back against the pillow that smells mostly of himself, but faintly of Sherlock still. He closes his eyes and cants his hips upward despite heavy fingers trying to push him back down. His lips are just parted enough to draw in soft breaths, and with each exhale he wants to say Sherlock's name, wants to worship him. His body is on fire, his mind is a swirling vortex of nothing; just every sound and every touch.

"Fuck," he whispers, and he can feel the smug grin that forms over Sherlock's stretched lips.

Sherlock pulls away and crawls over John, sucking now at the thin skin of his throat. "What do you want, John?" he asks.

"Mmm. Why are you here - all of a sudden - in the middle of the night?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Yes."

He still has some dignity after all. Maybe.

Sherlock's mouth has slid just underneath John's ear. He breathes his skin in deeply, and then whispers, "I wanted you."

And those are the words to shed John of the last vestiges of his pride, his dignity; his willpower. He realizes, at that moment, and the moments to follow, with Sherlock on top of him, inside of him, rolling his hips agonizingly slow that he won't ever give this man up. No matter the circumstances, John Watson will always want, will always need Sherlock Holmes.

When he falls asleep, sticky, sweaty and exhausted, it's with Sherlock by his side, and when he wakes up, the bed is empty. He doesn't know what he should have expected- he starts to think that maybe he dreamed the whole thing the night before.

He gets out of the bed and pads into the kitchen when he hears the clang of the kettle against the counter.

Maybe it wasn't a dream, after all.

At the sink stands Sherlock, dressing gown wrapped around his bare body, and the kettle underneath the running tap.

"Oh," John says, "You're here. I thought you'd left."

"No shows Monday through Wednesday."

"Right, but still." he runs his hand along the back of his neck, "Did something happen with you and Victor?"

"No," Sherlock answers, pulling the kettle away and setting it to boil.

"So, you're still-?"

"Yes."

"And- me?"

Sherlock leans against the counter and sighs before turning to face John. "I meant that I wanted you. I wanted you enough to come here."

John smiles, "So you missed me?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Doesn't mean it isn't true."

John crosses the space between them, smile still on his face, and brings a hand up to Sherlock's face. Sherlock closes his eyes and nuzzles his cheek into John's palm; the vulnerability of it all takes John's breath away.

"I think you were ridiculous for terminating our agreement," he says.

"I think you were ridiculous to let me."

"Should we reinstate it then?"

"One condition," John says.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks down at John, waiting for him to speak.

"No more sleeping with other people. From either of us."

"Wouldn't that make this a real relationship, then?"

"Sherlock, this was always a real relationship."

"Fine. I'll end things with Victor, but I'll still be seeing him."

"I know. Do what you have to for work, just don't sleep with him anymore."

"Yes. I get it."

"One more thing."

"What now?"

"I'm going to tell you that I love you and you aren't going to laugh or roll your eyes or scoff- or anything. You're going to accept it."

"Do I have to say it back?"

"No."

"Alright."

"I love you, Sherlock."

"Good. Is that all?"

"Yea, that's all."

Sherlock leans down and kisses John, "I'll take care of it, then."

John feels good. He feels like he's found something he's lost, and put it away for safe keeping, never to be lost again. He brings Sherlock's mouth to his for a slow kiss. He only has a handful of hours to be with him before the sun rises on a new day and Sherlock is lost to his work.

Sherlock deepens their kiss, his fingers hard around John's chin. He starts to nip at John's bottom lip, along his jaw and down the stretched angle of his throat.

"I won't lie to you." He says, "I don't want to be your boyfriend or your lover or your partner."

Sherlock's words are reminiscent of the night they first started their tryst, and a small seed of doubt starts to sprout in the pit of his stomach as Sherlock's hot mouth finds skin to kiss underneath the cotton of Johns shirt.

"But I want you - only you."

"I don't need you to be any of those things Sherlock, I just need you."

"Then have me, and don't worry about the rest."

John leans against the counter and settles into Sherlock's touch. It's slow and meandering; different from anything before because this time it isn't under the guise of pretense and pretend. It's real, and it's everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are incredibly appreciated and always replied to!
> 
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